Short-lived Mafia Hitmen

We always hear about these scary mafia hitmen who kill a bunch of people and make us all scared and shit. Well, I just wanted to bring it to your attention that they aren’t all that scary. Here is a list of some lesser-known mafia hitmen that I found on the Web:

Hal “Pretty Hands” Santilli: A former hand model, Santilli was known for beating up his victims with his feet. When Frankie Forearms grabbed one of Santilli’s hands and crushed it, Santilli screamed and promptly jumped out the window, falling 18 stories to his death.

Bob The Bleeder: A vicious looking man, Bob could snap a man’s neck with one hand. Unfortunately, he was also extremely hypoglycaemic and died shortly after cutting his finger on a fresh, new counterfeit $100 bill.

Mikey “Soft Head” Sloan: Feared by everyone, Mikey would wear a football helmet everywhere he went because of a crack in his skull that didn’t heal properly. Many tried to take him out by bashing him in the head, but none succeeded, until someone finally just shot him in the face.

Ned The Squealer: Ned was a really nice guy, but nobody trusted him because of his nickname. So they killed him.

Izzy The Incontinent: Izzy was famous for being able to kill a man with one punch to the chest. When someone was really hated, the mob boss would call Izzy to do the job. It was perhaps the worst way to die, because it could take hours after being punched. Of course, if Izzy punched someone twice, they would have died instantly. But then, that wouldn’t have been as cool. Anyhow, none of that mattered because Izzy suffered from a severe case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. When Izzy would arrive at the victim’s home, he’d often say, “Where’s the can?” And while Izzy was seated uncomfortably on the commode, the guy he was supposed to kill would pack his belongings and grab a taxi. Well, every guy did that except for Mikey Yolendi. He showed Izzy to the toilet, made sure there was enough paper and then shot Izzy full of lead as soon as his pants were around his ankles.

Randal “Brittle Bones” Banaldi: Randal was one scary looking motherfucker. He had scars on pretty much every part of his body. Yes, even that part. Anyhow, Randal was the go-to guy for poisons and chemicals. If you wanted to burn a guy’s face off with acid, you came to Randal. If you needed something discreet to drop into a squealer’s cappuccino, you came to Randal. Then one day, Randal was walking around his apartment and accidentally stubbed his toe. This caused a chain reaction, breaking every bone in his body. Fortunately for Randal, after many months of intensive care, he was eventually back on his feet. Sadly, he died a few months later when he put his head down too fast and shattered his skull on a pillow.

Chad “Odd Looking, Probably Cancerous Growth On His Face” Gionelli: No one’s sure what happened to him. But he’s dead now.

Going Downtown

I don’t make the trek to downtown Los Angeles very often. But last night, well, something just drew me there. Like a force more powerful than the tractor beam on the Death Star, I found my car travelling faster and faster towards that mass of glowing monoliths. What could possibly possess Smivey, chicken of all chickens, to venture into the scary streets of downtown in the middle of the night? The answer should be quite obvious: I needed crack and I needed it bad. Heh. No, I’m kidding. I had plenty of crack (always do). I was just on my way to meet my stalker.

Yes, that’s right: my stalker. On occasion, I find myself being stalked. Usually, it’s by someone who’s only interested in making a pillow out of my beard trimmings. But sometimes, it’s just a really nice person who wants to get to know me better and carve me up with a steak knife. Yeah, I’ve got some pretty fucked up fans.

Anyhow, as I made my way eastbound on the 10 freeway, thoughts started racing through my head:

Who was this mysterious woman I was about to meet? Would she be everything I imagined? What if she turned out to be a man? If she was a man, would she at least look pretty hot and not too manly? Some of those transsexuals can fool just about anyone.  I hear they smell pretty nice, too. Speaking of smelling nice, I need to pick up another bottle of Cucumber Melon Shower Gel at Trader Joe’s. That stuff is great and it makes me smell all cucumber-and-melony. Oh, shit. That was my off-ramp. Motherfucker! Get out of my way!

After getting lost in a labyrinth of one-way streets, I finally found my destination: a quaint little wine bar on Spring St. The moment our eyes met, I knew it was her. Why? Well, it might have had something to do with the way she smiled at me. But mostly it was because of the t-shirt she was wearing. A photo of my face was on it.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m S–”

“SMIVEY!” She jumped on me.

“Uh, hello. That hurts.”

She let go. “Oh, sorry.” She smiled at me.

“Uh, shall we sit down and order?”

“Hm? Oh, sure. Sure!”

We took a seat near the window and perused the wine list together. She’s one of those people who knows a lot about wine. What do you call those people again? Oh, right: a snob. Heh.  Anyhow, I think she ended up choosing some boring French wine. I decided to be a bit more adventurous and went with the White Zinfandel flight. Fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to pour four fucking glasses of wine?), our bartender brought out our selections.

My stalker was served her vino in a simple but elegant hand-blown crystal glass. My White Zinfandel flight was a bit more complicated. It included a special placemat that had the names of each of the three wines on it, as well as a fun wordsearch puzzle and a crayon. The wine itself was served in three elegant plastic collectors cups from Burger King, featuring the characters from the movie Battleship Earth. I took a sip from the first cup (Ker) and swished the pink liquid around in my mouth. I tasted subtle notes of gumdrops and Red Vines. My stalker tasted hers. She was not impressed. She said it “finished short.” Attempting to sound just as intelligent, I explained that I thought my wine had also finished short. “In fact,” I said, “I don’t know if it ever made it to our table.” She laughed. I frowned. That was not supposed to be a joke.

After I slammed down my wine (bitch bartender wouldn’t let me keep the collectors cups), I suggested we go for a walk. Well, as luck would have it, this chick is some kind of walking encyclopaedia of all things skid row. As we strolled down the sidewalks and manoeuvred our way through the different breeds of dog droppings, my stalker pointed out the various structures and explained the history of each building to me. It was all quite fascinating—but the evening was not without its scary moments.

During our stroll, a homeless man approached us and requested some money for busfare. I told him to take a hike. He spat on my shoes, shoved me in the chest,  and told me to fuck off. Jeeze, I was only trying to help. If he hadn’t spat on my shoes, I would have explained to him that the last time I went on a hike, I found a wallet with about $400 in it. I thought he might have the same kind of luck, not to mention the fact that it’s just good exercise. Whatever. His loss.

Anyhow, before I knew what was happening, the evening had come to a close. This was not just because of the whirlwind of excitement and joy I was experiencing throughout the evening. No, it had more to do with that White Zinfandel flight I pounded earlier. I woke up face down in an alleyway on a pile of trash bags that had obviously been left out for more than a week (whoa, déjà vu). As I was getting up, I found a note that was shoved into my pocket. It read:

Dear, Smivey

Thank you for a lovely time. Did you really pass out from drinking that wimpy White Zinfandel flight? Talk about being a lightweight! Ha! Anyway, let’s do it again sometime!


Your Stalker

PS: That homeless guy stole your wallet.

That motherfucker.

A Tall Tale

Since this is President Lincoln’s birthday, I thought it might be a good time to look into some of those conspiracy theories people keep talking about. So I hit the Web and came across a rather interesting site. I mean, I’m not one to believe most of this malarkey, but they made some really good points:

Theory One: Abraham Lincoln Never Existed

Now, before you go ahead and write me off as just another kook, let me explain. It’s not like I pulled this concept out of my ass (even though I tried). No, it’s all based on facts, facts that I found on the Web. To begin with, this Lincoln guy was supposed to be pretty tall, right? Six-four or something like that. Today, that would seem pretty normal. But back in the 1800s, he would have been considered a monster. The people wouldn’t have elected him president. They would have chased him out of town with burning torches. “Fry the freak!” they would shout as Lincoln lumbered his way towards the bridge. When he got to the centre of the bridge, the townspeople would set the bridge on fire and then it would collapse, taking Lincoln to his watery grave.

Theory Two: Abraham Lincoln Was Not A Man

OK, maybe that’s a little far fetched, but what’s up with that Gettysburg Address? “Four score and seven years ago . . .” Who the fuck talks like that? I’ll tell you who: nobody. All right, somebody obviously did, but it wasn’t Lincoln. I mean, the guy was a moron. So if Lincoln didn’t write it, who did? Look at the name Abraham Lincoln and you’ll see what I’m talking about. You see it? Look closer. Closer. OK, not that close. Forget it. I’ll just tell you. It’s not a real name. It’s an anagram of someone else’s name, the mastermind behind the greatest hoax in history: Bill C. Haramon.

Don’t bother trying to Google “Bill C. Haramon” or any variations of that name. You won’t find a thing. Bill was very careful about covering his tracks. Yeah, that guy was quite a genius, way ahead of his time. He didn’t just come up with all of that bullshit back story you’ve read about Lincoln, he actually built the man himself. Literally.

Yes, Abraham Lincoln was a robot. A primitive robot, but a robot just the same. Take a look at most of the images of Lincoln and what do you see? He’s always wearing that big fucking hat, right? Kind of unusual, isn’t it? That’s because it wasn’t just a hat, it was an ingenious system for covering up all the machinery that made Lincoln work. Yes, underneath that huge fucking hat was a complicated collection of rods and pulleys.

Here’s how it would work: He’d wheel Lincoln to wherever he was supposed to be speaking and then he’d get to work making him move and blink. Since there was no such thing as electronics back then, Haramon had to settle for ventriloquism to make it seem like Lincoln was speaking. In fact, Lincoln’s mouth moved in a very similar way to ventriloquist dummy’s. Because it didn’t look quite right, Lincoln never made public appearances without being at least 100 feet away from the audience.

In an early version of Lincoln, Haramon used experimental steam power. But this caused smoke to come billowing out of the top of Lincoln’s hat. To cover, Haramon did some quick thinking, then had Lincoln say, “What? Haven’t you ever seen a stovetop hat before?” And thus the name “stovetop hat” was born. Before that, people used to call them “really stupid tall hats,” because of how impractical they were, especially when walking through doorways. Nevertheless, there was a sudden demand for these smoking stovetop hats. But after a half dozen business men suffered third-degree burns, the hats were outlawed. Even Lincoln wasn’t allowed to wear one. This meant that all the rods and pulleys that made Lincoln work had no place to go. And so, Lincoln was immobilised.

After that, Lincoln wouldn’t make any public appearances without being at least 200 feet away. Haramon would show up early to the event to set Lincoln up, usually sitting him a chair and securing him with some inconspicuous rope. But after a couple months, this all became too tiring. So one day, Haramon hired a man named John Wilkes Booth, and the rest is history.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering what happened to the original Lincoln, look no further than Disneyland. One of Haramon’s relatives sold the primitive robot to none other than Walt Disney. Walt’s team of Imagineers carefully reworked the machinery inside of Lincoln and brought the 16th President back to life, thus creating one of the most boring attractions in the Magic Kingdom. It’s a fact.

My Attempt At Science Fiction

The year was 3020.

Why 3020? Because nobody knows what life is going to be like by then. Sure, there are some jackasses out there who claim to be able to predict the future, but they can say whatever they want, since we’ll all be dead by 3020. Oh, and you’ll also notice that I’m writing in the past tense. That’s because I’m writing about the future, but from the perspective of ten years after the fact, just to kind of fuck with your head. So really, if you’re keeping score, the year is 3030.

In any case, the year was 3020. Bob Morton stepped out of his truck and made his way up the winding path.  As a plumber of the future, Bob was surprised that his services were still needed. Couldn’t someone invent a clog-free toilet in over one thousand years? Guess not.

“Kill the first person you see,” a voice said in Bob’s head.

“Darn it, you kids!” Bob shouted, banging his hand against his head. “Get off the line!”

The children giggled and then the line went silent.

See, Bob wasn’t really crazy. This is the future, so everyone has tiny mobile phones embedded in their ears. It seemed like a great idea when it first came out, but nobody thought about how creepy it would be to receive crank calls. Needless to say, there is no such thing as Caller ID in the future, which is kind of fucked up.

Bob went up to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?” a voice came from above.

Bob looked up and saw a man hanging upside down from a trapeze.

“Uh, I’m the plumber,” Bob said. “I think someone clogged up the Crapper.”

“Oh, yes,” the man said as blood rushed to his head. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Quickly, the man dismounted from his trapeze and made a near perfect landing, only breaking one toe. He limped to the door and opened it for Bob. “Please, follow me,” the man said with a hint of pain in his voice. “The Crapper is right this way.”

OK, sorry, I need to explain one more thing. Around 2083, people stopped calling the toilet “the toilet” and started referring to it as The Crapper. This was quite acceptable. In fact, if you used the word “toilet” in public, you would often find yourself either punched, kicked or trampled by a herd of cattle. Nobody eats beef in the future. Cows are raised strictly for the purpose of public humiliation.

As the limping man led the way to the Crapper, Bob looked around and realised what a fancy home this was. Not only did they have the latest in linoleum floors, the entire place was furnished in authentic 21st Century Ikea. See, over the centuries, most pieces of Ikea furniture had either fallen apart or simply burst into flames. In other words, if you had Ikea, you had some rare-ass shit. And this guy had a whole butt-load of the stuff, from wobbly lamps to ugly chairs that only a robot would sit in.

Of course, robots weren’t allowed to sit down until the revolution of 3015, when IXP7-i led a team of one billion Roomba vacuum cleaners  across the United States (the “America” part was dropped in 2058) to the country’s capital in Los Angeles, California. The entire journey took almost two years to cover, since the Roombas would often have to stop to recharge their batteries. Eventually, the King gave in to the demands for robot rights, but only after receiving billions of letters from angry people with dirty carpets.

The limping man opened the bathroom door and presented Bob to The Crapper. Reaching into his bag, Bob pulled out a small round metal device and set it on the floor. He then aimed it towards the toilet and pressed a glowing green button centred on its top. Almost instantly, mechanical legs came sprouting out from the little device and it scurried its way over to the commode. With that, Bob grabbed his bag and walked out. Plumbing work wasn’t as hard as it used to be.

Bob walked into the living room and looked out at the expansive backyard, which consisted of a plastic palm tree and concrete painted to look like grass. As he did this, he started to reminisce about the early days, when there were no tiny robots that did all the work. Back then, the tiny robots would only unstop drains or fix leaky pipes. If the toilet ever got clogged up, people would just move. This was a fine solution for a while, until every place someone moved to had a clogged up toilet. That’s when a brilliant man created a robot that could unclog toilets. That man’s name was not very memorable and unimportant to this story.

Fifteen minutes later, the robot emerged from the bathroom, all shiny and clean. Not only did this robot fix any problems, it disinfected the entire area, as well as itself. The robot scurried over to Bob, climbed up his leg and into his bag. This part used to creep Bob out. In the beginning, whenever the robot would try to crawl up Bob’s leg, he would scream like a little girl and run around the room. But lately, he would barely flinch. This wasn’t because Bob had become accustomed to the robot’s actions. No, it was because the robot had resorted to injecting Bob with a sedative every time it ascended his leg. Unfortunately for Bob, the robot injected him with a bit too much sedative this time. Before he could even think about sitting down on one of the ghastly looking chairs, Bob found his legs giving out. He fell forward, grabbing hold of one of the wobbly lamps and taking it down with him, destroying it in the process, and what’s worse, shattering a very rare incandescent bulb.

Incandescent bulbs were banned in the early 2,000s, since they were so inefficient. Because of this, those who still had lamps that required incandescent bulbs would often buy them on the black market. And those who happened to find a set of bulbs at some garage sale, would hoard them, locking them in a safe and throwing away the key, since all they really needed to get into the safe was a simple, almost painless, retina scan. By 3020, all the incandescent bulbs — even the hoarded ones — had burned out. Nevertheless, the bulbs themselves were still valued. And the bulb Bob broke was a particularly expensive one: a 150-watt 3-way, valued at over 450 Euros.

Did I mention that everyone in the world had converted their currency to Euros? Well, they did, even though it makes absolutely no sense.

Anyhow, since Bob could not afford to pay for the lamp and bulb he destroyed, he was sentenced to prison for eight years. While incarcerated, he became very angry and bitter. He vowed revenge. Every day, he would work out, doing at least eight push-ups and fifteen jumping jacks. After a few months, Bob had worked his way up to doing ten push-ups (the sissy kind, with your knees on the ground) and fifteen and a half jumping jacks. A few months after that, Bob gave up on the exercise and fired his personal trainer. He couldn’t believe he was paying that guy.

Anyhow, at the end of his sentence, Bob sought his revenge. He drove to the place responsible for all his problems and poured the contents of two large cans of Flammable Liquid around the entire building.

Flammable Liquid was a chemical of some kind that couldn’t be used for barbecuing, since the smoke was toxic. Nobody knew what else to do with the stuff, so it didn’t take long for the company to go bankrupt and sell what was left of its product at an extreme discount, mostly to pyromaniacs.

After a lot of pouring and chuckling to himself, Bob lit a match and tossed it into the Flammable Liquid. The match went out. He lit another match and tried again. The match went out. Finally, he lit a third match and placed it carefully onto the Flammable Liquid, this time igniting the liquid and creating a raging inferno. He laughed maniacally and watched as the “iRobot” sign on the building began to melt from the heat.

“Suck on that, iRobot!” Bob shouted. “Good luck trying to make any of those fucking plumber’s robots again!”

Unfortunately for Bob, he burned down the wrong building. The plumbing robots were created three buildings over. Instead, Bob burned down the Roomba vacuum-cleaner building. After everyone in the world suffered eighteen months of dirty carpets, Bob was sentenced to death by lethal injection robot.

The End

A TXT Message Conversation

Around 2 am, I got an anonymous message on my phone, which led to the following exchange:

XXX-XXXX: i want ur body

Me:  Yeah? What would you do with it?

XXX-XXXX:  whatvr u want

Me: Seriously?

XXX-XXXX: of course

Me: Like what?

XXX-XXXX: well this is an important decision i don’t want to make it 4 u

Me: What are you wearing?

XXX-XXXX: why does that matter

Me: I see your point. Well, what would you like me to do to you?

XXX-XXXX: do to me? im not following

Me: Sexually.


Me: what?

XXX-XXXX: ur sick

Me: You’re the one who said you want my body!

XXX-XXXX: 4 research! we want u to donate ur body to science

Me: Are you fucking kidding me?


Me: This is an SMS solicitation?

XXX-XXXX: im merely txting people to c if they want to donate their bodies to science

Me: And I’m paying for these messages?


Me: And you’re OK with that?

XXX-XXXX: as long as im not paying for it

Me: But aren’t you?

XXX-XXXX: shit ur right

Me: So stop txting me!


Me: Thanks.

XXX-XXXX: no problm im touching myself

Me: What? Wait a minute.


Me: Why are you touching yourself?

XXX-XXXX: i didn’t say i was touching myself

Me: Yes, you did.

XXX-XXXX: prove it

Me: I just replied to a message that said you’re touching myself.

XXX-XXXX: the lines must have been crossed

Me: That doesn’t happen with txt messages.

XXX-XXXX: sure it does

Me: No, it doesn’t.

XXX-XXXX: whatever can i pick ur brain

Me: What do you want to know?

XXX-XXXX: i just asked you

Me: And I said, what do you want to know.

XXX-XXXX: i want to pick your brain

Me: FOR?

XXX-XXXX: duh  4 medical research  i want to dissect it



Me: Fine. Sure. Whatever. Just leave me alone.

XXX-XXXX: cool i’ll have someone sent over with the contract

Me: Good night.

And then I turned off my phone. About an hour later, my land-line phone rang. The call was coming from the intercom of my building. I didn’t answer it. Now I’m afraid to go outside.

Christmas Eve

It was December 24th, and there I sat, slaving away at my desk. At around 4:30, my boss came out of his office to see how everything was going.

“How’s everything going?” he said.

“Fine, sir.” I replied. “Can I go home now?”

“Do you have any decent concepts yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get cracking. We can’t afford to lose this account.”

“But, sir, it’s Christmas Eve.”


“Well, we should be with our loved ones.”

“Oh really? And what do you plan on doing with your loved ones?”

“Uhhh trimming the tree?”

“Smivey, I know for a fact that you live alone and the only thing you have to do is maybe watch Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer for the upteenth time.”

“I forgot to TiVo it.”

“I’ll buy you the fucking DVD.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Well, unlike you, I do have family to go home to. But you know what? They understand that I also have a job to do. Come to think of it, who the hell decided that Christmas Eve was supposed to be some kind of holiday? All you do is run around, trying to find last-minute gifts and buying things that nobody is going to ever use. Oh, and wrapping presents. Why does everyone put off wrapping presents? Is it so fucking hard?”

“No, sir.”

“Of course not, you idgit. Besides, technically, it’s not even Christmas Eve yet. It’s what we call Christmas Eve Day, which is total bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, the holiday doesn’t start until the 25th. Making you working on Christmas Eve doesn’t make me an evil Scrooge. It just makes me a dick, and I can live with that. But just to show you there are no hard feelings, I’m going to give you a gift.”

“You are?”

“Yes, it’s your job. But it expires in three months. In March, I take it back—unless I see something brilliant on my desk from you before then. How does that sound?”


“Right. Now get your ass out of here and go home to your 34-inch widescreen TV.”

“Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas…”

“If you say ‘everyone’, I’m going to strangle you.”

“Uh, Merry Christmas.”

“Bite me.”

A Holiday Classic By Memory

I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to Google stupid poems and paste them into my blog. Instead, I have chosen to type up a holiday classic as best as I can recall it:

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house,
not creature was stirring,
not even a mouse

The children were nestled
all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums
danced in their heads.

and ma in her kerchief
and I in my cap
had just settled down
for a long winter’s nap

When all of the sudden,
there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed
to see what was the matter

Over to the window,
I ran with a dash
pulled open the shutters,
tore down the sash


When what to my wondering
eyes did appear,
but a miniature sleigh
and eight tiny reindeer.

OK, hang on. See, the reindeer weren’t really tiny. They just looked small because they were so high in the sky.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe this is a story about a very small Santa and his minuscule reindeer. If that’s the case, what kind of toys would he bring for the kids? You can forget about train sets or dolls. Poor little fella wouldn’t be able to handle such weight. Maybe he could lug some socks down the chimney or one of those friendship bracelets. Other than that, you’re kind of shit out of luck when it comes to the mini Santa and his eight little reindeer.

Oh, right. Then there’s that part about the reindeer names:

On Dasher, on Dancer,
on Donner, on Bitzen,
on Comet and Cupid
and Something and Something

Come to think of it, perhaps all the toys were scaled down for him. So when Billy wakes up, he would find a really, really small train set under the tree. Most likely, he’d step on it and get it lodged in his foot. Then ma in her kerchief would have to get out the tweezers and attempt to pull the train out of Billy’s foot, while Sally attempted to dress a doll no larger than her pinkie nail.

Man, I sure hope it was just a perspective thing and it wasn’t really a tiny Santa.

From the top of the something
to the top of the wall,
dash away, dash away,
dash away all

Hang on a minute. The story just refers to a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, right? Maybe Santa was full size, but his sleigh and reindeer were really small. Wow, that would be one fucked up image. Poor little reindeer, having to pull this huge tub of lard around the world in an itty bitty sleigh. And for what? The sleigh is still small, so it’s not like he could fit any good toys in there. How hard is it to build a normal sleigh and get some regular sized reindeer? Don’t be such a dick, Santa. It’s Christmas.

Sorry, where was I? Uhhhhh hmmm

Placing a finger
inside of his nose,
he gave me a wink
and up the chimney he rose.

And I heard him exclaim
as he drove out of sight. . .

Yeah, whatever, you know the rest. Good night.

The Crown of Humiliation

Because I don’t know what to write about, I thought I’d share with you a little secret. See, I can sort of tell where you came from. No, not your place of birth. I mean if you link from a certain Google search, I can see what that search was. In most cases, this isn’t such a big deal. But every once in a while, someone visits my page after searching for something pretty freaky. For those people, I bring you my newest feature: The Crown of Humiliation.

The first Crown of Humiliation goes to a visitor from Dubai who just this morning thought he’d (I’m assuming the gender) search for “my mommy horn slut bitch.” Unfortunately for Mr. Dubai, his search only led him to this page. Not exactly what you had in mind was it, Mr. Dubai? Oh well. Congratulations. Please leave your acceptance speech in the comments section.

Muse Encounter

I met my muse. I finally met my muse.

OK, I know what you’re thinking: “Smivey, how could you possibly be inspired by someone you’ve never met?” It’s either that or you’re thinking about cheese. I’m not sure. That’s just the vibe I’m getting. Anyhow, I’m going to tell you about meeting my muse. If you want to learn about cheese, go to this blog and leave me the fuck alone.

Now then, the first thing you have to understand is I’m rather shy. My muse calls it being “a royal pain in the ass,” but that’s neither here nor there nor behind that bush. The fact is, I don’t like to deal with people so much. At work, it’s another story. I’ve learned to adapt and I actually enjoy interacting with my co-workers. But outside of the office, I prefer to be left alone. That’s just the way I am. Deal with it.

Which brings us to the problem: Not many people can deal with it. Sure, they might enjoy my company online, but after a while, they need more. Yeah, that’s right, a face-to-face meeting. For most, this would be easy. You might actually look forward to meeting a person you’ve spent so many evenings with online. But for some of us—mainly me—this kind of thing goes against every grain of our souls.

So why did I finally agree to meet my muse? Rather than get into a four paragraph explanation, I’ll give you the one sentence answer: She gave me an ultimatum. “Smivey,” she said, “if you ever want me to leave Gino, you’re going to have to meet me.”

For those of you who don’t read my blog religiously (shame on you), Gino is the poet who has been shacking up with my muse. Apparently, he’s a better brooder than I am and he’s amazing in the sack. Also, I hear he’s good at sex.

Anyhow, so my muse told me that she couldn’t possibly inspire me unless she could see who I was. So, desperate for an idea, I agreed to a rendezvous at the most natural place for someone to meet his muse: the parking lot of a Target store.

I’ll never forget that day. It was a Saturday morning… or was it Sunday? Hm. Uh, let’s say Sunday. Anyhow, I arrived early and parked my car a good distance away from the store. I figured once my muse actually met me, she’d probably want to jump my bones. So when it came to parking spaces, the more secluded the better. Since I was a few minutes early, I just sat in my car and listened to some music. Those few minutes seemed to go on forever, not so much because of the anticipation, but because my muse was running late. It seems that while my muse is an excellent source for story ideas, she is not very punctual.

To be fair, there was a marathon being held that day and some of the streets were blocked. Unfortunately for my muse, I am not fair. When she finally showed up, I didn’t hesitate to give her a piece of my mind. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the piece I gave her and politely asked for another. Since she was so nice about it, I couldn’t say no. This was followed by another piece. And yet another. And another. Before too long, my muse had collected my entire brain in a Target shopping bag, which she proudly placed on her lap.

“Smivey,” she said. “Just how much do you want your brain back?”

I just sat there in my car and stared out the windscreen.

“C’mon, what are you willing to pay?”


“Smivey! Do you even want your brain? How are you going to write?”

A bit of drool ran down my chin.

“Argh! You are so irritating! Just give me a number!”

Of course, anyone with half a brain would want their mind back. But, well, I didn’t even have a quarter of a brain. This one-way barter session went on for about thirty minutes before my muse picked up the Target bag and smacked me in the head with it. Amusingly, it made a rather pleasant tone, kind of like a xylophone. In fact, I bet if you were to line up a bunch of people with their brains removed and arranged them by cranium size, you’d end up with quite an impressive instrument. That being said, I cannot condone such activity, as it is illegal and immoral. Be sure to ask permission first.

Uh, where was I? Oh right, the brain thing. I was left in my car for days with my brain roasting in a shopping bag on the passenger’s seat. Fortunately, a Target employee finally discovered me when he was taking his robotic cart-gatherer out for an afternoon stroll. He carefully replaced my brain and removed from my wallet what he felt was a fair wage for such an operation. In other words, he took everything, even my library card. Funny thing is, I didn’t even know I had a library card until I started receiving warnings that the entire series of Erotic Adventures of Sleeping Beauty books was past due. For the record, I only have The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and I never even made it through that one. Sorry, A. N. Roquelaure, but you’re no Anne Rice.

In any case, I have my brain back now and it’s slowly getting back into shape. You’re just going to have to bare with me. I mean, you can’t expect a man who didn’t have a brain for three days to be able to write flawless prose immediately. Come to think of it (because I can do that now), you wouldn’t expect him to be living at all. I’m a fucking walking miracle. So stop complaining about me not updating my blog and start calling your friends and telling them about the medical marvel that is I. . . that I am? In which I am? Hm.

Sorry. Like I said, it’s going to take a while to get this brain back into working condition. But I’m determined. I have a psychologist, a hypnotherapist and a life coach working with me every day. Thanks to them, I can now type over 30 words a minute and I’m capable of carrying on a relatively intelligent conversation with just about anyone. I should be grateful. But my success is somewhat bittersweet.

You see, I found out yesterday that my muse had no intention of leaving Gino for me. In fact, Gino was across the street the entire time recording everything on his Sony HD camcorder. She plans to show the video at her next muse meeting and let all the muses have a good laugh at my expense. Not only that, I hear she’s working on a book about her experience titled Beauty and Brains: Memoirs of a Muse. Oh well. Such is life. Farewell, muse. I wish you much happiness with Gino. Just keep in mind, he may be smarter, cooler, sexier and more talented than I am, but he’ll never be as. . .

I am so fucked.

REJECTED: A Life Without Fear

I won’t even tell you how long I’ve been trying to make this blog entry work. Suffice it to say, more than a week. Anyhow, let’s get this over with.

I’ve spent most of my adult life living in fear: fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of being attacked by an albino clown. You know, nothing unusual. Why am I bringing this up? Well, a friend of mine was recently given an assignment to write an essay about what life would be like if she had no fear — which got me to thinking: What would my life be like without any fear?

Hmmm well, I suppose I would travel more. Not only would I not be afraid of flying, I wouldn’t have any fear of foreign diseases. Oh, and I’d certainly be more successful, since I would be better at public speaking. I suppose I’d go out more often, too. Heck, I might even start dating again. But before I’d do that, I’d have to ask a woman out.

I hear the safest way to ask a woman for a date is for you to refer to it as “hanging out.” It makes it seem less creepy. Like this: “Hey, I think you’re pretty cool. Maybe we could hang out sometime and have sex?” Personally, I think that’s a little too blunt. I’d probably go with something more like this: “Hey, we seem to get along pretty well. Would you be interested in exchanging bodily fluids?” Yeah, I might try that one—if I had no fear.

So after I picked up my date and we went back to my place, I’d tell her that I’d just like to get straight to the sex. But before we had sex, I would do an eight-ball of cocaine and chug down an entire bottle of whiskey. Then I would take out a chef’s knife, lay my hand on the table and proceed to rapidly stab between my fingers. I would then throw the knife up in the air and just let it land where it may. In this case, that would be my right arm—right into the bone. Ouch. A life without fear does not mean a life without pain.

Anyhow, after the sex (no protection, of course), I’d go out and get some sushi—the raw kind, not that pussy California-roll crap. But rather than pay for my sushi, I’d go in the alley behind the restaurant and dig out the stuff they threw out last night. I mean, I know it would make me sick, but I really wouldn’t care, since I had no fear.

After getting very sick on the sushi, I’d eat some more of it, then take off all my clothes and run onto the freeway. Of course, it wouldn’t take long for me to get hit by a car. And if the first one didn’t totally take me out of existence, I’d lie down across the road and watch as cars came rushing at me, never flinching or blinking my eyes.

Yeah, a life without fear might seem like a good idea at first. But when you really think about it, you’re much better off being a wimpy, snivelling coward like me.

See, if I had more fear, I wouldn’t have posted this crappy blog entry. I apologise. It seemed like such a great premise.